


Icarus

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, Trigger Warning: depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano is a recently divorced professor. Iker is his colleague and friend (sort of). Alvaro is his student and friend (sort of).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> OK how do i begin to explain this work.   
> this fic is so important to me i hope i didn't fuck it up. important notes at the end i promise   
> trigger warning: depression, mention of suicide   
> (this in no way is meant to represent how everyone feels when they're depressed, just one person going through it, their experiences, etc.) 
> 
> ****sorry about typos i didn't feel like reading the whole thing over again

“Never regret thy fall,  
O Icarus of the fearless flight  
For the greatest tragedy of them all   
Is never to feel the burning light.”   
-Oscar Wilde 

 

November, 1999

He was driving home from work, and the roads were slippery. He almost spun out once or twice, and he rubbed his eyes and sighed instead of being worried or afraid. The thing that scared him the most was that he had taught himself not to care about the important things. His wife walked out on him, and he wasn’t afraid. His bills came, and he wasn’t afraid. The ladder wobbled beneath him, and he didn’t reach to hang on to anything, and he wasn’t afraid. 

The absence of fear was meant to be a good thing. It was supposed to mean bravery, courage, finally finding something worth hanging on to, finally finding peace. Instead, it was torture. It was like containing hell within himself. He wasn’t afraid to lose anything because he didn’t have anything of value. 

He began to see someone to talk about how he felt and what was going on. Mostly he talked about the loneliness that plagued him. Other times he talked about every dark desire that rose in his body and threatened to take over. That was rarer though because, occasionally, there was a spark of fear upon admitting that dark infinities existed within something he once considered an empty shell. 

“Have you talked to anyone recently? A friend maybe?” His shrink was intelligent. She wore glasses like Harry Potter, and her hair was black like the sky just after midnight. She was a good twenty years older than him, and a great deal smarter. 

“There’s no one left,” Cristiano replied. “After the divorce, they all picked sides.” 

“And, what? No one took yours?” 

“No, they did. I just wouldn’t let them. After awhile, they got sick of being pushed away.” 

“Is there anyone you don’t push away?” 

He smirked. She made a note on her clipboard. “You, I suppose. But I pay you to listen, so I guess that doesn’t really count.” 

“So it’s the loneliness again?” 

He smiled. He touched his forehead like he was attempting to salute her. “Just like every day.” 

It went on like that for a long time. Every day was a new challenge, and every day, he tried to smile and be happy and be normal. He made a friend at work, but it didn’t last long. He tried going out, but the night didn’t make him feel as free as it used to. He still felt weighed down with his sorrow, like as much as he tried, it was impossible to shake off. 

It was a night in the middle of winter when he met someone who changed things. He was wrapped in his coat, a scarf around his neck, a hat covering his head. The other man was standing a few feet away, staring up at the rain. He held his arms out and opened his mouth like he was trying to catch it. 

He was young, with dark eyes like shadows that were shining. His smile was like nothing Cristiano had ever seen before. 

He looked a good ten years younger than Cristiano, probably hardly old enough to drink. He dropped his arms after a moment, saw Cristiano across the sidewalk. He smiled for no reason. Walked over. 

“I seem crazy,” he said cheerfully. He shrugged, tugged on his scarf, and it looked like he was going to be on his way when Cristiano smiled back. The boy hesitated. “Happy Holidays,” he said. 

“You too.” 

The boy smiled again. His teeth were perfectly straight and white, and there was such happiness in his eyes Cristiano worried it might be poisonous. 

“I’m Alvaro,” he said. “I’m getting coffee. You look cold. If you’re interested, I wouldn’t mind some company.” 

Cristiano brushed his hand across his face. “Do you always invite complete strangers to have coffee with you?” 

“I like to think we’ve met in other lifetimes,” the boy joked. “So no one is a complete stranger.” 

“You like to think that? What if you meet me and find out you actually hate that idea?” 

Alvaro grinned. Cristiano pictured milk on his upper lip. “So coffee or no coffee?” 

“Coffee,” Cristiano agreed cautiously, and he followed the boy into the shop. 

For awhile they didn’t say anything. They waited for their orders in silence, and Alvaro didn’t seem bothered by it. He tapped his fingers on the table, hummed under his breath to himself, but he didn’t try and break into Cristiano’s brain and steal the machinery that made him tick. Too many people did that, Cristiano thought. He just wanted someone who didn’t try and pick apart his sadness. 

“You never introduced yourself,” Alvaro said finally, smiling again, though this one was less overpowering. Their drinks arrived, and he stuck his finger in to test the temperature. 

“Cristiano.” 

“Well it’s nice to meet you. You work around here or something?” 

“I teach at the university. I’m part time now.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Cristiano narrowed his eyes, and he didn’t touch his drink. He folded his arms to form a barrier between them. “What do you mean? Lots of people go part time after awhile.” 

Alvaro shrugged. He didn’t seem particularly bothered by Cristiano’s sudden change of mood. “I’m sure lots of people do. I’m just wondering why you did it.” 

Cristiano raised an eyebrow. “I--” A small shake of the head. “I don’t really feel comfortable talking about this to a complete stranger.” There was a pause, and Alvaro continued to smile at him brilliantly. “And you’re probably a student,” Cristiano added as an afterthought. 

“I am. Not your student though.” 

“Not yet. I’m sure next semester I’ll see your shining face in my sea of students, and you’ll manipulate me with your vast knowledge about my life.” There was a thin smile on his lips, but he wasn’t entirely kidding. 

His eyes widened. “Do I really look like I could manipulate anyone?” 

Cristiano didn’t answer the question, simply inclined his head, but after sipping his coffee, he said, “I just didn’t feel like getting up in the morning anymore. So I made myself get up less.” 

“And do you feel like getting up these days?” 

He was hesitant to answer, but finally, “Sometimes--” He cut himself off. “Rarely.” Then, quietly, “No.” 

\+ 

December, 1999 

He felt better after that. He told himself he was becoming Alvaro’s mentor, but they were quickly becoming more-- friends --and Cristiano stared at his lips for too long. Alvaro was cheerful, kind, curious-- always, always curious-- and he never seemed to tire of hearing about Cristiano, whether it was about his life, his work, or his failed marriage. Slowly, Cristiano told him. 

“And did you love her?” They were back in the coffee shop, and the sun was playing across Alvaro's face. He was like some kind of angel. 

“Sometimes.” 

“And did she love you?” 

“Always. That’s why she left, I think.” 

“Because she was consistent and you weren’t?” 

Cristiano smiled. “No, because she was hurt, and I was just getting lost.” He sighed loudly under his breath because it felt like another therapy session, and he felt dramatic and whiny, like his words were a weight tying his feet together, and they were sinking to the bottom of the ocean. “Anyway, are you studying for your finals?” 

Alvaro made a face, and he turned to kick his backpack sitting on the floor next to him. “Sort of. It’s tough trying to remember all this shit.” 

“Yeah, you won’t need most of it later on.” 

“Thanks for that. That’ll motivate me.” 

Cristiano’s face lit up. He rubbed the back of his neck when he felt like his smile was stretching too wide. “I thought you liked when I was honest.” 

Alvaro’s eyes were windows. “Too much,” he said. “I like it too much.” 

Cristiano felt his face heating up, so he cleared his throat, messed with his collar, changed the subject. “Let me see your schedule for next semester,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll tell you the ones to watch out for.” 

Alvaro looked uncertain for a moment, and then he reached into his backpack, looking a little ashamed. “It’s--” 

Cristiano quickly read it through, stopping after the first three. “Okay, you’re all good so far. Shayk is the best. Absolutely brilliant woman. Stunning though, like, distractingly stunning. Casillas will kick your ass, and Ramos is easy. If you sit there and look pretty, sometimes interject a few comments, he’ll give you an A.” 

“Oh,” Alvaro said quietly. “That’s good.” 

Cristiano traced his finger across the list to check the next teacher. His hand dropped, and he looked up at Alvaro like he’d been slapped. “You have me? When were you going to tell me? Were you just going to drop in and pretend you had no idea?” 

“Surprise,” Alvaro said mildly. He reached out to take the schedule back, but Cristiano just stared at him, a determined harshness overwhelming his features. Alvaro’s hand dropped into his lap and, for the first time, he seemed to realize that there was nothing to smile about. It wasn’t a game, and he hadn’t learned things simply to know them. 

“There’s a price for knowledge, Alvaro,” he said. He crumpled his napkin, stood up, shoved the schedule back across the table. “I’ll see you in class.” 

+

January, 2000 

He wasn’t planning on answering the phone because he hated the fucking thing, but it was ringing and he couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t get the idea of Alvaro calling to apologize out of his mind. He didn’t want to talk to him. He just wanted to hang up and break things all over again. 

“You’re coming tonight, right?” It was Iker. His voice always seemed peculiar to Cristiano; it was firm but kind, like he was chastising someone and kissing their forehead. 

“No,” Cristiano mumbled, exaggerating his tiredness. “It was a long day.” 

“Every day is long. Please?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

There was a shuffling sound, an embarrassed pause, and then, “Look, Cris, we’re worried about you. Please?” 

He was immediately defensive. “Who’s worried about me?” 

“Me," he said with emphasis, then, "Sergio, Fabio, even Villa and Silva.” 

Cristiano glared at the counter. “Jesus. You really have everyone sticking their noses into my business don’t you?” 

“Cris,” Iker sighed like he’d been expecting it. “I didn’t say anything. Honestly. They came to me and asked what was wrong, and I said I was worried. That’s all. I just said I was worried.” 

“And what right do you have being worried?” He flinched at the sound of his own voice but made no move to apologize. 

“What right do I have?” Iker sounded like he was exhausted. There was loud music somewhere in the distance like he’d just stepped outside. “I’m your friend.” 

“I’m pretty sure we just work together.” 

“I’m pretty sure there’s more to it than that. I’m not asking you to start up anything that happened after the divorce. I know you were--” Iker cut off. “I know you were really fucked up when that happened. Your mind wasn’t there. But we don’t just work together. It’s better if you don’t lie to yourself.” 

“Iker,” Cristiano said quietly-- guiltily because he hadn’t even been thinking about their history. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean-- I just meant that you don’t have to worry about me. It’s not your job to make sure I’m having fun with you-- and everyone. Just let me worry about myself.” 

“I can’t do that. You said you would come out with us this week.” 

“Well I’m a fucking liar.” 

“No. You’re not.” A door slammed, and someone shouted for Iker. It sounded like Iker had covered the receiver and spoken because there was a loud fuzzy noise next to Cristiano’s ear, and then a big “OH” from someone on Iker’s end. “Besides,” Iker began again, “You’ve just been hanging out with that student a lot, and you know how it looks. You’ve got to have some friends that aren’t going to get you into trouble.” 

At the mention of Alvaro, Cristiano bit the inside of his cheek. “Okay,” he found himself saying, “I’ll be there.” 

“Want me to pick you up?” 

“Aren’t you already there?” 

“Yeah, but I was planning on going home to get something anyway.” Iker had always been a terrible liar. 

“Sure,” Cristiano said. “Alright.” 

\+ 

Iker waited for him in the car while Cristiano gathered his things. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, but he stopped and rubbed the back of his neck when Cristiano appeared. He smiled, unlocked the door, didn’t take his eyes off him. 

“I’m glad you decided to come.” 

“Yeah,” Cristiano said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll have a great time. We’re professors. We’re too old to be doing this kind of stuff.” 

Iker shrugged. “We’re too old for a lot of things, aren’t we?” He shot Cristiano a meaningful look. 

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Nothing, my ass,” Cristiano said sharply. “You always mean something.” 

“That kid,” he said after a moment. He took a sharp right. “It just feels like something else is going on. He’s always visiting you. You’re always having lunch together. I just feel like something is off.” 

“Since when can a student not have lunch with a teacher? You tutor your kids at lunch all the time.” 

“Yeah,” Iker agreed, “But I don’t reach across the table to touch their hands. I don’t mention them in passing by name. I don’t smile the way you do. I don’t get that fucking look in my eyes like they’re heaven.” 

Cristiano folded his arms over his chest. “I do not get that look in my eyes.” 

“You do,” Iker said, calmly because he never tried to start an argument, and he never tried to be invasive. (He just was, Cristiano thought sourly.) “You haven’t had it in a long time. You sure as hell never had it while you were with me.” There was a long, painful sort of pause. “This isn’t the kind of look you give to anyone, trust me.” 

He almost winced. “I don’t even have that look in my repertoire, so.” 

“You do, and it’s reserved for him.” 

“So, what? What do you expect me to do about it?” Cristiano felt like the seatbelt was tearing at his skin. “Change the way I arrange my face just because you suspect something? Which is ridiculous, by the way.” 

Iker bit his lip. “Jesus. Fuck,” he said quietly. “I just wish you weren’t so goddamn difficult.” 

“I’m not being difficult. I’m just telling you the truth: you’re being crazy.” 

“So if I asked you--” Iker paused. He licked his lips anxiously. “If I asked you--,” he started again, “If you felt anything at all for him, what would you say?” 

Cristiano turned to face the window. He pressed his forehead against the glass. “I’d tell you to mind your own fucking business.” 

\+ 

It was later that night, and Fabio was pressing up against him. He had a drink in one hand, and he was singing in Cristiano’s ear. “This song is great,” he shouted, out of breath. “You should dance to it. Not with me. I’d dance with you, but I think Iker would eat me alive. Dance though. You should--” He cut off, losing his train of thought as the chorus came up. 

Cristiano looked across the dancefloor. A beautiful woman was dancing seductively in front of Iker, making eyes at him the whole way. She was confident, and she threw her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes could compel a man to do anything. Cristiano would have given in ages ago. 

Iker just stood there looking uncomfortable. He pushed his drink farther away from him as she attempted to get him to drink it. She held out her hand to dance, and Iker, unable to avoid taking her hand entirely by accident, walked to the edge of the floor with her where he uncomfortably moved his hips around without cracking a smile once. 

He spotted Cristiano and widened his eyes. “Save me,” he mouthed, and Cristiano was still hearing what Fabio shouted in his ear. He shook his head. He turned back to the bar. 

“You sure you don’t want anything?” the bartender asked. “Shift’s over in a second, and my replacement is on the way.” 

Cristiano shook his head. 

“You sure? Not even on the house?” 

Cristiano shook his head again. 

“Alright, well normally we make people sit over there--” He pointed to an empty group of red tables. “--if they’re not drinking, but just tell whoever’s replacing me that Jesé said it was okay for you to sit here, alright, Professor?” 

Cristiano smiled, suddenly recognizing that Jesé had been his student two years ago. “Right,” he shouted back, “Thank you. How’s that job going?” 

“Internship,” Jesé called back excitedly. He removed his jacket and hung it on the hook for his replacement to pick up. “And it’s alright. You weren’t kidding when you said people shit on interns though.” 

“Oh yeah,” Cristiano replied, eager to be back in a conversation that made sense to him. “I wish that had been a joke. It will be a few more years before you get the respect you deserve, and then people will understand that you’re gifted.” 

The boy grinned back. “Thanks, professor. I’ll try and stop by class sometime just to visit, if that’s alright?” 

“I’d love it.” 

He opened his mouth to say something else, but someone stumbled in behind the bar. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and he smiled at Cristiano before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to. He took the jacket off the hook, patted Jesé on the back, and walked over to stand in front of Cristiano. 

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” His voice was cold, too formal, nothing like the smiling boy in the rain. 

“No,” Cristiano said, and he felt like moving away, but he didn’t want to give Alvaro the satisfaction. “I don’t want anything.” 

“Then you’ll have to move to that area over there,” Alvaro said, pointing. “The bar is for people who are ordering drinks, especially on busy nights.” 

“I don’t see anyone fighting to get my seat,” Cristiano answered coldly. “And besides, Jesé said it was alright if I took this seat tonight.” 

“Well Jesé just left, and now I’m in charge, so you’re going to have to move.” 

“This is just childish,” Cristiano scoffed, but he picked up his jacket, slid off the stool, and headed over to the tables. Before he arrived, he caught sight of Iker, still bouncing uncomfortably with the girl who wouldn’t let go of his wrist. 

He inclined his head, and immediately Iker whispered something to her, and she backed away with wide eyes. “I had no idea,” Cristiano heard her shout. “I had no--” She cut off and moved away. 

“Want to get out of here?” 

Cristiano nodded. 

\+ 

“So I saw you with him,” Iker began, resting his forehead against the window while Cristiano started the car. 

“I saw you with her.” 

“It’s not a fucking competition, is it?” 

“No, but if it were, I’d be winning.” He wasn’t sure why he said it. Out of spite, probably. 

“I know,” Iker said, and he looked out the window. “Thanks for driving,” he said finally. 

“No problem.” 

It was quiet for a long time because Iker shut his eyes, and Cristiano was starting to feel guilty again. Iker moved his lips soundlessly, and the glass fogged up. He kept his eyes closed, like he had something to forget. 

“You look like shit,” Cristiano finally said. “Come back to my place so I can give you some advil.” 

“You going to tuck me in and tell me sleep well?” 

“No,” Cristiano replied, smiling, “You can tuck yourself in, and I don’t care how you sleep.” 

“How sweet,” Iker mumbled. His lips left an imprint on the glass. 

\+ 

Alvaro called in the morning. Cristiano made the mistake of picking up, and he winced when he heard the other man’s voice. “I’m not calling to apologize. I just called to say your friend left his wallet. He might need that.” 

“Which one?” 

“Fabio. Jesé said he was hanging around the bar earlier. Said he was friends with you.” 

“Right.” Cristiano scratched his neck. “Yeah. I can swing by and pick it up or something.” 

“No. I’ll just bring it today. First day of class, remember?” 

Cristiano hadn’t actually remembered. He’d spent so long dreading it that a night when his mind wasn’t constantly occupied by it was a brief taste of freedom. “Okay, then you can bring it then.” 

“Bye then,” he said dully. 

“Bye.” 

Neither of them hung up. Alvaro sighed into the phone, and Cristiano could just picture him shutting his eyes and working up the confidence to just blurt it out. “I don’t understand,” he said at last, “I just don’t understand.” 

“I’m your teacher. You didn’t even tell me before we got close. I knew it was going to become something like this. I knew I would need you and then things would get fucked up. I can’t need my student, alright? You put my job on the line. Fuck. You should understand that.” 

“Nothing happened out of the ordinary, Cristiano. Are you concerned for a reason?” 

Cristiano shut his eyes, and he imagined Alvaro licking his lips, murmuring, Do I look like I could ever be spiteful? “We became friends. That’s why I’m concerned.” 

“Friends,” Alvaro echoed. “Yeah, I guess if that’s what you want to call it.” 

“If you got the wrong idea--” 

“No, I don’t think I did.” He hung up, and Cristiano started pacing the kitchen. He counted the tiles twenty-five times before Iker wandered into the kitchen, found him pacing and counting, and touched his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Shit just keeps piling up,” he mumbled, and he brushed away Iker’s hand. “I can’t take going into work today. I can’t take seeing him in class. It’s just too much to look at him.” 

Iker touched his shoulder again. “You think it’s too much to look at the person you’re in love with when you can’t have them?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s not,” he said, and his voice was like rain beating against the concrete. “You get used to it. The pain becomes familiar. You fuck other people, and you watch him fall in love. You have to keep your eyes open whether it hurts or not. The world doesn’t exist to make you feel good.” 

Cristiano moved away, and he started preparing breakfast. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t look at Iker. He poured them both coffee, handed one to Iker, watched out of the corner of his eye as the other man leaned against the counter in his pants from last night. No shirt, belt on the living room floor. 

“Do you remember everything from that night?” Cristiano finally asked, and Iker nodded. “You don’t even know which night I’m talking about.” 

“No, I know. The first night-- when everything happened, when you needed something to work.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I remember everything.” 

“Is that why you feel the way you do?” 

Iker’s shoulders slumped, and the anxiety left his body. The hope he’d been carrying within him for a long, long time had, thankfully, been conquered. “No. I feel the way I do just because of who you are. It’s not because I remember a few fucks in the dark.” 

“I remember too.” 

“Exactly, and you don’t feel the same way.” Iker sipped his coffee, and he relaxed against the counter again. The absence of such a pitiful hope did wonders for his confidence. “So don’t think I care about you just because we fucked. Whenever you feel like you’re unlovable, just remember that I've got a few screws loose because of you." 

Cristiano laughed foolishly under his breath. “Well, I’m pacing and counting tiles and trying not to fucking feel like dying, so you didn’t leave me much better off.” 

“Don’t forget the part where you’re falling in love with college kids,” Iker joked, but his eyes were wet. 

“Right, can’t forget that part.” There was a long pause, and then Cristiano held up his keys. “Get dressed. I’ll drive.” 

\+ 

Class was miserable, like he expected it to be. Alvaro stared at him the entire time with a cold, accusatory expression. Cristiano passed out papers, and Alvaro’s hand brushed his. The younger man leapt back like he’d been burned. 

“Sorry,” Cristiano muttered, and he moved on. The stack fell from his grasp, and someone bent to help him pick them up. Alvaro didn’t move from his seat. 

He stood in front of the class, chalk in hand because he was old-fashioned that way. "The first thing we're going to examine is cathexis. Burn it into your mind because we'll go back to it throughout the semester." 

And later, the boy in the back with hair plastered to his forehead raised his hand. "So is it, like, related to love?" 

"It's best not to think about it like that." 

\+ 

"How was class?" Iker was dipping his fry carefully and methodically into his large container of ketchup. He held it up for inspection. 

"Fine. You're fucking anal about that ketchup thing." 

"It's become a ritual." He had dark circles under his eyes, but somehow his smile made them less noticeable. "Was the kid there?" 

"Course. He dropped Fabio's phone off on my desk without a word." 

"Maybe that's better." 

"Maybe," said Cristiano, but he didn't sound convinced. "It just sucks because he sort of brought me back into reality, and--" Cristiano shrugged. Gave up on explaining what he meant. 

"What, and then he just disappeared, stopped being the person you knew, stopped understanding what had always been obvious?" Iker gave him a look like what he just said was important. 

"What?" Cristiano asked exhaustedly. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"People change, and they leave. This is all familiar, and this has all happened before." 

Cristiano rubbed at his eyes with the back of his fists. "Right, right. Alright. I just need to get home and sleep. Maybe things will be better after I hit Restart." 

Iker shrugged, sipped his smoothie, didn't say another word until Cristiano picked up his untouched lunch and left. 

\+ 

February 2000

Cristiano told Iker a secret two weeks after the first semester began. 

They were sitting in Cristiano’s apartment grading papers when Iker tapped on a student’s essay and said, “That’s the funny thing about secrets.” 

“What is?” Cristiano bit his pen cap. 

“Your secrets are the most revealing things about us, but we hide them under our skin like they’re the only thing that keeps our blood pumping.” Iker scribbled a grade on the essay and reshuffled the stack. “So what’s one of yours?” 

“You,” Cristiano said simply. “What happened between us after my divorce. I’ve never told anyone that.” 

Iker bit his lip. His hands were pale, and Cristiano felt like tracing one of the veins there. “I told Fabio.” 

“Yeah,” Cristiano said. “I know. He said something in the club the other day. Thought you might have.” 

“Do you mind that I did?” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now-- whether I mind or not. It’s already out there.” 

“It matters to me. It won’t change anything, but I’d like to know.” 

“It doesn’t. I don’t care who knows, really. I was feeling really fucking horrible, so I used you, and I shouldn’t have. But I like to think we’re friends now anyway.” He looked up at Iker questioningly. 

Iker nodded. He nudged Cristiano’s arm. “A secret.” 

“You want one.” It wasn’t a question. 

Iker nodded again. 

“Fine. I saw Dirty Dancing three times in one week, and I didn’t think it was as great as everyone says. One time I rode one of those huge water rides and threw up in the middle of it. I don’t actually hate fruitcake, and I never thought the fifth Harry Potter was even close to being boring. I grow tulips in my backyard because they were on my father’s casket at his funeral. I still miss him as much as I used to even though I think that pain is meant to fade over time. I don’t believe in using clocks because the concept of time freaks me the fuck out, but I do anyway, and I’m always early for things precisely because the concept of time makes me--” 

“No,” Iker said abruptly, eyes wide and curious. “That’s not what I mean. Those are great, but this-- I mean something you can’t list. Something that your tongue trips over.” 

Cristiano almost made a joke about tongue twisters, but he just smiled thinly instead. Said, “Fine. Alright.” He shut his eyes for a second, felt his elbow dig into the couch, the way the breeze filtered in from the kitchen window. Finally, “The last time someone complimented me--and I mean an actual compliment, not one of those ‘I like your shoes’ type shitfests-- I put my head down on my desk and cried.” 

“Why?” Iker asked, tracing a scar on the table beneath his stack of essays. He didn’t look up, but he swallowed roughly. 

“Because it hurt to hear something good about something I despise so thoroughly.” 

Cristiano didn’t say that sort of thing very often, but he knew the typical responses. He knew the look in their eyes, the sort of fleeting desperation that chased the good sense off their features for just a second before the two merged in the center of their foreheads as a great wrinkle of worry. 

Iker was worried. He folded his arms over his chest like he always did, stared at Cristiano with that look of “You’re not alright” that he was so used to, and said, “I hope you see it soon. How wrong you are. I hope you understand that this is just a drop of poison and you are so much more.” 

“Yeah, but it feels like I’m drowning in that tiny drop of poison.” 

“I know.” 

Iker stayed over that night. He slept on the couch with the tiny red blanket Cristiano normally reserved for his dogs to play with. He brought Iker his spare comforter later, when Iker was sleeping because he had refused it earlier. 

He settled it over Iker's shoulders. Smiled as he snored quietly. 

\+ 

Alvaro received his first comment on a paper three weeks into the semester. He thought it was pretty unprofessional of Cristiano to refuse to comment on his papers up until that point, but he never complained. 

Grammar can be sacrificed for the greater good. More flow. Develop a style. This is Creative Writing, not English 101. Stop trying to impress me with your verbal waterfall, and start putting some meaning behind those words. Rewrite this by Tuesday. Continue with the death of Socrates, but instead of focusing on him, focus on the ones who sentenced him to death. You write like they spoke: pretty words with no meaning. 

"Jesus," Isco muttered under his breath. "Knew he didn't like you from the first day, but that's just cruel." 

"Right?" Alvaro fumed. "It's not just me then. Like, you actually think he has a personal thing against me?" 

Isco shrugged. "Not sure why he would." The beard he was growing made him look older and wiser than he actually was. 

"Yeah, well." 

Isco dropped the paper back on the table. "What is it, Alvaro. What did you do? I know that face. That is the face you used when you lied about breaking my windshield." 

Alvaro made the face again. 

"Tell me." 

\+ 

"Is there something I should know?" Alvaro demanded, throwing the paper down on Cristiano’s desk. His heart was pounding in his chest, hands shaking; he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting. 

"What?" Cristiano glanced down at the paper briefly. 

"The comment you put on my paper--" 

"Was the best advice I could offer," Cristiano interrupted, flipping through it once quickly and carelessly before throwing it back across the desk towards the younger man. "If you think this is because--" 

"I do." 

"Well stop." 

"Stop what? Stop thinking? Or stop thinking anything that opposes what you're thinking? Stop--" 

"Talking,” Cristiano snapped, finally whipping off his glasses and looking-- really looking-- at his student. “Stop talking." 

Alvaro was quiet for a long time. His hands were balled into fists, and he felt like ivy was growing a noose around his lungs. "I felt something. I'm sorry for lying, but people make mistakes. And I felt something." 

Cristiano stared, felt like he was choking for air. "Revise your paper," he said finally. "I said it's due by Tuesday." 

"I don't give a shit about my paper." 

He hesitated. "Start giving a shit about it." 

\+ 

Summer 2000 

In the end, they realized that being attached to one another wasn’t enough. There couldn't just be a weak string of connection between them. It didn't work to revel in their sadness, glorify their pain. It worked if the made themselves heroes in their minds just for breathing. 

That's how it went from then on, after the quiet realization that there was more to the world than a tiny sphere of suffering. Iker came over less, stopped calling him every night just to check up, and by the end of the year, he'd planned a trip to Italy with a small group of students. Pompeii, he explained. They had to visit Pompeii. 

The summer was the hardest part because Iker was away, emailing pictures every so often, and Alvaro had just started working at the ice cream shop Cristiano used to love. He stopped going in. Stopped checking his email. He was confined to his house again. 

Surprisingly, what saved him was football. He was more obsessive about watching his games than he was about avoiding people, so he zipped up his jacket, pulled the hood up to cover his face, and shut the door behind him with a resounding thud. He was sitting outside a Starbucks after watching his team cruise to a victory when he made the phone call: 

“There are these moments,” he said quietly. “These moments of intense happiness that you think will save you, but in the end, you realize you’re just--flailing around. You’re dying just as easily as you were before.” 

“Is that how us-- being friends-- is that how it makes you feel? Like you’re dying?” 

“Iker,” Cristiano said seriously, “That’s how everything makes me feel.” 

“So, what, you’re telling me not to take it personally?” 

“I’m telling you not to take it at all. Just--leave or something. Make it easy on both of us.” There was a forced quality to his voice. It was difficult to say sometimes, difficult to put that overwhelming numbness into words. 

“Is this the part where you’re doing that gallant thing? That heroic thing? Where you try and save me from being hurt later on? Because I’ve always thought that was bullshit, and honestly, it just makes you sound like a douche. Like you think you can save me. Like you think you’ve got that power,” he scoffed. He sounded too far away-- or perhaps felt too far away, but admitting that would be touching upon a mountain of sin and disgrace that Cristiano couldn’t handle heaping upon his own shoulders at the moment. 

“Don’t I?” 

“What, have the power to save me? No. Only I’ve got that power.” 

“So, I don’t know, use it or something.” 

“I am using it.” Iker was gripping the bride of his nose. Cristiano couldn’t see it, but he knew exactly how Iker was moving, how he shifted his body uncomfortably when he didn’t like what he was hearing, how he cocked his head and shut his eyes when he was trying to concentrate on something, how he scratched his chin when he was overwhelmed. “This past year, I’ve become dangerously dependent on you, and I know you feel the same way, but that’s not how things are supposed to be. I’m not supposed to have to run off to Italy to escape how overwhelmed I am by --everything.” Everything, he said, but --you, he meant. 

“Like I said,” Cristiano said after a moment, with some difficulty, “when you come back, things have to be different.” 

“Different,” Iker repeated. “Different, not gone.” 

Cristiano said he wasn’t so sure. Just that he wasn’t sure, nothing else, and he hung up after he asked about Pompeii and Iker talked for a little while about everything they saw. Whenever he was passionate about something, he talked for about half an hour longer than he really should, just because that was Iker, and he was easily swept away. He talked, and at first Cristiano listened. When Iker got around to talking about the architecture, the daylight was starting to fade on Cristiano’s end, and his interest was fading with it, but he kept the phone to his ear and the grin plastered to his features because it was nice to sit and listen, especially with that familiar voice on the other end. 

He went home after he hung up, and he walked around his house thinking about how sometimes it seemed like life was just passing him by, and he was sitting in the corner and watching it, and maybe sometimes he was reaching out his hand to try and stall it, maybe to slow it down in case he ever wanted to stand back up and challenge it to a rematch. But mostly he was just sitting and waiting for that passion-- that feeling-- to touch him once more. And he knew he was properly crushed by events that should have just kept him going. 

The next day he visited the ice cream shop, and he saw Alvaro there with the purple apron. He was tying it behind his neck, just getting into work in the morning. He was yawning, rubbing his eyes with the back of a loose fist. Eyes red and a little swollen like he’d been up all night working or partying. 

Cristiano was at the front of the line before he was ready, and Alvaro stared at him like he didn’t know what to say. His hand was still in the ice bucket and the longer he stared at Cristiano, the longer it remained. It was pink and numb by the time he finally woke up. He was embarrassed, checking behind him to make sure no one had seen him freeze up. 

“Hello, sir.” He coughed. Used the inside of his elbow to cover his mouth. “What can I get you today?” 

“Chocolate, please.” 

Alvaro didn’t move. He was staring again. 

“Small,” Cristiano continued. “The blue cup there. And give me one of those sample spoons. I hate the big ones.” 

Alvaro looked down, blushing again. He moved his lips soundlessly like he was chastising himself for not moving sooner. “Right. Okay.” He filled the cup, slid over a sample spoon. “Gelato at this time of day?” he asked casually, running Cristiano’s card. 

“Yeah. I can trick myself into enjoying the day if I start it with ice cream.” 

“Can you?” 

His smile slipped. “No, not really. Fake it ‘till you make it though, right?” Alvaro shrugged thoughtfully like he was winding himself up for a long response, but Cristiano cut him off. Stuffed his card into his wallet, his wallet into his back pocket. “How’s your summer going?” 

“Good. I’m taking a class.” 

“That’s good. What class? I didn’t even check to see who was offering summer courses.” 

“Off campus. Some kind of photography thing.” He said it nonchalantly, so Cristiano could tell he was good at it. 

“I didn’t know you were into photography.” 

“Well, everyone likes to think they’re into photography, so.” He shifted uncomfortably. Fiddled with the purple knot of the apron behind his neck. “But, yeah,” he continued when Cristiano said nothing, “It’s good. It’s really good.” 

“Good. I’m glad.” 

“Are you?” Alvaro liked to pick things apart when they didn’t naturally open up like a flower under his gaze. Cristiano hadn’t seen it at first, but the boy worked at people with all the tools he possessed to take them apart, to look inside, to study what made them tick. 

“Course.” 

“Even after everything though?” 

“Of course,” he said, softening his gaze. “I find it insulting that you still need reassurance that I want you to be happy.” 

“Well, consider yourself insulted because I do.” Alvaro bit his lip. After a second, he hurriedly added, “Need that reassurance, I mean,” like he was worried Cristiano wouldn’t understand what he was trying to say. 

Cristiano picked up the blue cup of his chocolate gelato. “I want you to be happy,” he said, slowly like he meant it. “You were a better student than I gave you credit for.” 

“It’s not my worth as a student I’m worried about.” 

“Then what is it that you’re worried about?” 

Alvaro stared at him for a long time, and Cristiano flashed back to Iker giving him the same look when Cristiano pretended he didn’t understand. It was that look full of suppressed urges, like a dam fit to burst. 

“Forget it,” he said finally, but Cristiano knew that he would not. 

\+ 

Iker returned halfway through the summer. He was originally planning on staying longer, but something changed. He wouldn’t tell Cristiano what, but he planned a trip to the coast, and he invited Cristiano along, and they both knew what leaving Italy early was about. 

It wasn’t difficult to convince Cristiano after all, not half so hard as Iker thought it would be anyway. All he had to say was “one month near the beach” and Cristiano looked up. “Let’s get away from all this,” he said, and Cristiano was halfway through packing. 

The first day was simple. Just staring at the ocean like they belonged there. They were silly enough to think that, that they belonged and that they could stay. That’s the funny thing about vacations and getaways and romances and novels, Cristiano thought. He could fall into them and be happy, but there always came a time when he fell too far, when he hit the cold, hard rock bottom, and he knew that was reality, and he had to acknowledge it. 

“It’s pretty here,” Iker said, and he dug his toes into the sand. Then, “Thanks for coming. I didn’t feel like spending the summer alone.” 

“Or in Italy apparently.” 

“Alright, so I wanted to spend it with you. What’s so wrong with that?” 

Cristiano raised his eyebrows, gave him a look like ‘you’re crazy’ and ‘we’ve been over this.’ But Iker only returned it with added emphasis like there was something Cristiano refused to see. 

“It is pretty,” Cristiano acknowledged after a moment. “Too pretty.” 

“What’s wrong with pretty things?” 

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with pretty things when you can have them forever. But when they fade… God, it’s so much worse when a beautiful thing fades. I’d rather spend a lifetime with boring, meaningless things than spend a little while with something beautiful and watch it get… destroyed,” he finished lamely, when he really meant something stronger, something greater and more terrible. 

“I wouldn’t,” Iker said. He didn’t meet Cristiano’s eyes, so they both knew it was important. “Why would you spend a lifetime settling? Why not just, I don’t know-- when you see something beautiful… when you see something that you love, you shouldn’t let it get away because you know someday, much later, you’re not going to have it anymore. You’re not going to have anything forever, so you might as well just resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to lose what you love most in the world.” 

“And, what, you think that’s a good way to live?” 

“I think it’s the only way to live. Look at you. How is this any way to do it-- to live?” 

Cristiano shrugged. He waded into the water until it lapped steadily against his thighs. His shorts were soaked at the bottom, and Iker was a few feet back, on the sand still because he was wearing those ugly sandals Cristiano told him to get rid of ages ago. 

“I saw him a few weeks ago.” 

Iker paused halfway through undoing his sandal. “Who?” he asked calmly. He dropped his sandal and joined Cristiano in the water. His shorts were longer, soaked earlier. He kept trying to reach down and squeeze the water out, too distracted by the conversation to realize that they would just keep getting wet. 

“Alvaro. He works in that ice cream place we used to visit all the time.” 

“Gelato,” Iker corrected. Cristiano rolled his eyes. “I spent a summer in Italy. I get to be pretentious.” 

“Half a summer,” Cristiano corrected. Iker rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a reason for being pretentious. I just am.” 

Iker laughed lightly, looked down when it started to fade like he was remembering Cristiano’s words from earlier about beautiful things and watching them fade. “You didn’t know he worked there and just walked in?” 

“No, I knew. I avoided it for awhile, but then they were showing Spain vs. Italy next door, and it was the final, so I watched the game. I sat outside for a little while after, and that’s when I called you. And then I went home, and I was just thinking. And the next day, I went back.” 

Iker stared at him with that same look like he was holding an entire world of emotion back. The waves that sunk an entire fleet of ships had nothing on the storm in Iker’s eyes, but he held it back. He held it back, and he looked away. “What flavor did you get?” he asked finally, stuffing his hands in his pockets and taking another step forward. 

Cristiano smiled. “Chocolate.” 

“Hm. Not bad. I would have gotten something a little more exciting, but that’s alright.” Iker checked over his shoulder for his sandals, casually asked, “So are you still in love with him?” the way he might have asked if Cristiano was hungry for dinner. He looked back at Cristiano, something like panic creeping into his eyes. 

“I was never in love with him.” 

“You’re a worse liar than I am.” 

“No,” Cristiano said sincerely. “I think you just see the truth before I do.” 

“So you admit it? That you’re in love with him?” 

“No. I don’t think so. But I think I could be, maybe if I were better. Maybe if I weren’t so down all the time.” 

“If you mean depressed, you might as well just say it.” 

“I don’t mean that though.” 

“No, right. Because you can’t say it. You just say sad or you had a bad day, or you don’t feel like going out, but really it’s all leading to you pointing a fucking--” Iker took a deep breath, stepped back unsteadily like he might fall. He looked like he regretted his words, like he wanted to reach out and tell Cristiano not to listen to a word he was saying. He was talking nonsense. 

“Like what?” Cristiano pressed, because he knew it would hurt Iker. “Like I’m pointing a fucking gun at my head? Is this you admitting that it’s inevitable? Is this you finally admitting that nothing can save me?” 

“No, god. No. This is just me being a fucking asshole. Fuck. Please don’t listen to a word I’m saying. I don’t mean that. I’m just worried about you. If he makes you happy, please go to him because that’s what I want. Not to protect you or to save you because you don’t need that. Just--” Iker waved his hand, looked away. He stepped out of the water, collected his sandals. He stood in the sand watching the water while Cristiano played with the waves that sidled up to his thighs. 

“Alright,” Cristiano said finally. “We’re going to have a good time here. I didn’t come to the beach with you to argue. I didn’t come here to kill myself either, so you can stop watching me like a fucking hawk.” 

“I know you didn’t come here to do that. I wouldn’t have left for Italy if I knew--” 

“You left because you couldn’t handle seeing me anymore. As long as we’re being honest--” 

“Right, as long as we’re being honest, let’s acknowledge that I’m still in love with you.” 

Cristiano looked out at the ocean again because it was wide and expansive, so big and powerful that it almost hurt to look at or think about when he compared it to the magnitude of his life. He got like that sometimes. He started to think about what it all meant, and then he was just staring down the barrel of a gun. Never, he told himself a long time ago-- Never ask yourself what it all means. 

They didn’t talk much after that because there wasn’t anything left to say. Iker commented on the weather a few times before he realized he’d already mentioned the odd shape of a cloud three times. Cristiano stepped on a plastic shovel. It cracked under him, and Iker tried to put it back together. They abandoned it after awhile, left the cracked plastic in broken pieces under the faint sun. 

“Can you handle it?” Iker asked when they were back in his hotel room. “Being here with everything weighing down on you?” 

“Course I can handle it. Oddly enough, I always seem to handle things a little better when you’re around.” 

They exchanged a brief smile. There was a long pause, and then the dreadful hope entered Iker’s eyes again, and when he said goodnight, it was quiet and pleasant, like a song floating through the window on a warm evening. In his eyes, there was no fear that his wings would be clipped. 

“Do you want to come in?” he asked. 

And, in that moment, Cristiano was weak. He felt his cheeks heat up. He nodded, said, “Might as well. It’s getting late.” 

When he fell asleep in the armchair next to Iker’s bed with the window open, his last thought was of Alvaro working, sticking his hand in the cold freezer, and scooping up chocolate ice cream. And when he sighed in his sleep, he was sighing for the boy trying to catch the rain on his lips, for the liar, for the hazardous beauty sitting in the third row who wrote essays like death sentences. 

Iker showered and changed before he climbed into bed, and when his head hit the soft pillow, his thoughts were of Cristiano and the shadow of blood that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He thought of his sad eyes and his honesty, of his failed marriage and the way he spoke with passion in the front of a classroom, of the way he laughed and the way he spoke like a suicide note. Iker didn’t sleep. 

Then it was the morning and Iker was staring out the window, and Cristiano was stepping out of the bathroom with a thoughtful expression. His hair was damp, a towel slung around his waist. Shaving cream was visible behind his ears, under his chin, a watery line of it traveling smoothly down his chest. 

“Would you call me an open book?” 

Iker only turned away from the window to briefly glance at his friend. He went back to looking out the window, blinking back the image of Cristiano. It wasn’t easy to clear his mind of it. “If you’re a book at all,” Iker said slowly, “you’re written in no language I understand.” 

Cristiano considered it for a second, his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he said at last, and he moved to Iker’s suitcase, pulling a shirt off the top of the pile. “I’m going to borrow this.” He pulled it on, leaving the towel jutting out; the shirt looked more like a tent. 

“It’s not your size.” It wasn’t Iker’s size either. He bought it at the airport in Italy before going home. He bought Cristiano dozens of trinkets, but nothing seemed right, so he stuffed them into a two small brown bags and left them in the smallest, normally useless pocket of his large suitcase. The shirt was a panic gift. He bought it without checking the size, only to see on the plane ride home that it was about three sizes too big for both of them and had a mustard stain on the left sleeve from where Iker had accidentally used it as a napkin during lunch before boarding. 

Cristiano ignored him. “It has a stain,” he complained before flopping back down on the bed and looking up at the ceiling. He was on his back, his knees propped up. 

Iker could see and even though he had already seen it all before, it was like a fucking religious experience, and, since he was already in the habit of denying himself a spiritual existence, it wasn’t as difficult as he would have thought to look away. 

“So what is this about?” 

“Are you talking to the window or me?” 

“The window,” Iker answered, as if it should have been obvious. He turned to give Cristiano an annoyed look. “Come on, what’s it about.” 

“What is what about?” 

“Your open book thing.” 

“I was just wondering. I look at myself in the mirror sometimes--” 

“Sometimes?” 

Cristiano grinned, and Iker felt like kicking himself. “--and I see everything, you know? I was wondering if other people could see everything too.” 

“Is that really what you were wondering?” Iker asked the window. It was foggy; he could barely see the parking lot below their window. It was that thick, white, overwhelming fog that made him feel like something was lurking in the distance. 

“No,” Cristiano said at once. He wasn’t looking at the fog. “I was thinking about Alvaro, if you must know.” He was flipping through The Bible. It had gilded edges, and it shone in his hands, reflecting the early morning light onto the back of Iker’s shirt. 

“You were wondering if he thinks about you and your open book pages while he’s scooping ice cream?” Iker was sick of it. Addicted, but sick. 

“I was hoping he still thinks I’m a little bit mysterious. But I doubt it. I told him everything when we were…” He trailed off. Neither of them were sure how to complete the sentence. 

“Not very smart of you.” 

“When was the last time you were smart about loving someone?” 

Iker thought about Cristiano’s smile. The flash of white teeth and the terrifying, sometimes foolish joy in his eyes. “Never,” he answered unsteadily. 

They spent one final day on the beach. They were playing like children in the sand, throwing it at each other, wading into the water and shouting at the cold. They splashed each other, rolled around in the sand until their swim trunks were covered in wet sand and bits of seaweed. Cristiano was running backwards with silly long strides, almost daring himself to fall, and when he finally did, he did so energetically, purposely throwing himself to the ground to avoid Iker’s greedy hands. (They were playing tag; Iker was competitive, and Cristiano was even worse). 

His hand grazed a bit of broken glass and started bleeding. He didn’t seem concerned, but he gave his hand a funny look like the blood wasn’t out of place, like he was happy to see the bold red of it on his hands rather than within him. 

Iker rushed over, horrified, the smile falling cleanly from his lips like a murder weapon discarded from the hands of a killer. He fell to his knees in front of Cristiano, who was staring, putting his finger in it like a small child engaged in finger painting. 

“Fuck,” he panted, “Stop it. Stop fucking touching it. It’s going to get infected.” He took Cristiano’s hand, and the other man let him. He bunched his swim trunks at the bottom to mop up the blood. “You’re disgusting, I hope you know that,” he said shakily. “You don’t put your fingers in blood, alright? It’s just nasty.” 

“Okay,” Cristiano said, and he let Iker take his hand. Staring too long and too hard, he breathed a loud sigh like something was finally dawning on him. 

\+ 

Iker returned home with the same feeling he always got when he stepped foot on familiar soil, like a hopeless abandon was descending upon him, grabbing him by his shoulders and shoving him into the same lifeless momentum that propelled him through his weekly activities. He hated to look around him and know the buildings, understand the air, feel familiar eyes heavy on his features. When he left for Italy he was free; the beach with Cristiano was a dream. Home was prison. 

On the first day back, he and Cristiano met up for breakfast. Iker was red-eyed from staying up all night and, when they walked past the gelateria Alvaro worked at, he was left with a vague feeling of dread, like all the pieces were slotting into place, and he was just-- extra. It was all a race, and he was falling behind, but it was a good morning anyway because once Cristiano checked behind him to make sure Iker was still following. Slowly but surely, he was, and he was grateful for the reassurance that Cristiano cared. 

When he looked at Cristiano eating his pancakes with a small circle of maple syrup, he thought about the sea of emotion that cascaded over him every time he looked at the other man. He’d been drowning in it for so long that lungs filled with water felt normal; air would be poison. He wanted to reach out, nudge Cristiano’s arm, and once more tell him not to forget what existed between them, but it was the sea and the open summer air that made him brave before. Vacation opened a new world of possibilities, and now that they were back home, the old words of his father were echoing in the dark hallways of his mind: “Don’t show weakness to those who love you, son, because they will eat you alive...and never let them show weakness to you because if your heart grows fonder, you know you’ve wandered into their trap. Let their weakness sicken you, and then you will be safe.” 

“Stop staring at me like that.” 

Iker’s memory faded, and he realized that, while in his trance, he’d been staring too long and too hard, and with too much emotion attached. “Sorry, I just zoned out.” 

There was something musical about every conversation. Iker could hear it, and he felt he was just now beginning to understand the rhythm. There was give and take, push and shove, but at the end of the day, only one of them held the power, and it sure as hell wasn’t Iker. 

They left a little while after that, after talking about the weather, their classes, how many students they expected would drop out, how many students they expected to like (Iker: probably seven or eight, Cristiano: none), and whether they would have lunch the following day or not. Iker agreed, and Cristiano set the time and place (the small sandwich shop, noon). It was only after they were out the door and in their respective cars that Iker remembered the sandwich shop was right next to a little blue gelateria with a handsome student worker with puppy dog eyes. 

\+ 

The first thing he saw when he walked in was the boy he assumed to be Alvaro. He had dark eyes, dark hair, and this shy smile that made Iker understand it all. Cristiano immediately perked up beside him, brushed Iker’s arm as the two of them walked forward together. 

Cristiano ordered chocolate again; Iker ordered some strawberry sorbet thing. He was too busy staring at Alvaro to notice what was going into his plastic green cup. 

Alvaro’s eyes lingered on Cristiano, on the way his white t-shirt clung to his arms, and how, when he moved his arms to reach into his pocket, the shirt rose up to expose his abdomen. “Is that all?” 

Cristiano nodded silently, stepped forward with his wallet. Iker let him pay for everything, too distracted and confused and lost to jump forward and offer to pay for his own. He was normally so good at that, being polite. He was awful at lying, but he was good at being polite enough to conceal the depth of his emotion. That day, however, he was falling open. 

Alvaro handed the change back to Cristiano, and his gaze was panicked suddenly, like it was beginning to dawn on him that Cristiano’s visit wasn’t a dream and that when he walked out the door, Alvaro’s little paradise would be murdered; there was a chance they wouldn’t see each other again for a very long time. 

And Iker understood that, he did. He understood the panic and the hurry and the nervous sensation that must have overtaken Alvaro in that moment. He understood what it was like to be overwhelmed with love, and he knew what it was like to fear. 

He reluctantly handed Cristiano the receipt and, just as the other man took it, he blurted out, “There’s a show. For my class. There’s a show...type...thing.” He scratched his chin. “Uh. So, if you were looking for, you know, something to do on a Friday night, please stop by.” He looked down at the cash register. “I’d like you to.” 

Cristiano said nothing for a moment, and when Alvaro looked up, he didn’t look up at Cristiano; he turned to Iker, and there was fear in his expression coupled with a childlike curiosity that made him all the more striking. 

“I’m inviting all the customers,” Alvaro told Iker. 

“Friday,” Cristiano repeated. “I think I’ve got classes Friday. I can always get a sub…” 

“No, please, I wouldn’t want to…” Alvaro ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up and giving himself a frazzled, mad scientist look that also, shockingly, worked for him. “...I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you in any way. If you want, you can always just come by on Thursday and see my work. After class or something because the studio will be open. Ribery lets me work in there late. I’ve got the key and everything, so it wouldn’t be--” 

“Yes,” Cristiano agreed quickly, cutting him off. He look at Iker with this expression that just broke his heart clean in two. Like a stranded dog lapping up water for the first time in a week. “Yes, Iker and I will be there.” 

And so the week passed quickly until Thursday came, and then the day was long and too warm, and Iker was constantly rolling up his sleeves and stuttering during class, often going on tangents that had nothing to do with the lesson. He apologized after the lecture, told his students he was coming down with the flu. The man in front shied away; the woman smiled, pleasantly told him to get some rest and feel better. 

He packed up, coughing every so often until the classroom was empty. When at last he was alone, he dropped the coughing act and opened the second door for Cristiano to use as a shortcut. They used it all the time back when he and Cristiano-- well, Iker wasn’t going to think about that. Not when they had work to do. 

Cristiano was silent and dressed better than usual, but Iker made no comment, and when they arrived at the studio, they waved to Ribery like everything was normal and they were just taking a stroll through to visit the other departments. He scowled at them like he always did, but he raised his hand in acknowledgement, so Iker saw it as improvement. 

Just as they were opening the door, Cristiano turned to Iker, and there was a delicacy in his eyes, a fragility in his expression, a certain kind of hope that Iker had always been taught to crush-- but had never been able to. 

“He’s a student,” Cristiano said, more to reassure himself than anything. More to change his own mind, or rather, his own heart. “Nothing is going to happen. Nothing can happen. He’s a student.” 

“Right,” Iker said comfortingly. “But I have a feeling that doesn’t change a damn thing.” 

“Shouldn’t it though?” 

“Yeah, but I find that often times what should happen...doesn’t.” 

When they finally approached the student, he was slender and small and his hair was like matted feathers. Wide-eyed, he explained his photos, keeping his eyes trained on Cristiano the entire time. The way they stared at each other made Iker feel like he was being left out of an electric circuit. They stared like they were drinking each other in, so intense that Iker felt his cheeks flame up, and he looked away, and it was only then that Alvaro took notice of him. 

“And you’re Iker,” he said, an hour into their visit, like the introduction hadn’t already been made. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Hopefully not all good things,” Iker said pleasantly. Cristiano jabbed him in the ribs. 

For a moment, Alvaro was left staring at the place Cristiano jabbed, and Iker felt his jealousy grow there, fester, morph into a beast capable of very cruel or magnanimous things. 

“No,” Alvaro said, wetting his lips, “Not all good things.” 

And when he looked at Iker, the older man felt something split apart inside himself, some attachment to Cristiano exploding like a volcano, because as they said their goodbyes and walked slowly and silently back to their respective offices, Iker felt the distance between them shrink. They were no longer separated by an ever-stretching rubber band. When Iker looked at Alvaro, he didn’t see the same genuine love and admiration that Cristiano had let grow like weeds over his eyes. He saw a beautiful boy, a young and vivacious boy; a boy who, like his jealousy, was capable of cruel and magnanimous things. 

\+ 

Their time together came to a cruel and startling conclusion one week later, with the arrival of a letter. 

It was from Paris, on thick paper with a signature done in a fine calligraphy pen. It was dated the previous day, and it was addressed to “Professor Casillas.” It was a job offer, and before Iker even had time to consider it, some terrifying alarm bell was ringing in his mind, yelling at him to run, to escape; here was his chance to dodge the bullets that kept pelting his skin. 

But it wasn’t in his nature to make reckless decisions, so he made a few calls to let them know he would be phoning back with his decision the following week. The man on the other end spent three hours trying to convince Iker to come. Iker didn’t have the heart to tell him he was wasting his breath. 

After making the call, researching both the intricacies of the university and the portion of the city itself, Iker finally read the letter over one final time. He then set it aside to call Cristiano. Distantly, he recognized that he should have been calling his family first, perhaps his brother or one of their close friends, but he couldn’t stop his fingers from dialing the number the muscles had memorized. 

“We need to meet for lunch.” 

And because it was “we need to” instead of “do you want to?”, Cristiano was instantly suspicious. “What’s this about?” 

“We need to meet for lunch, alright?” 

“Fine,” he said, not sounding angry, just frustrated and a little out of breath. “Today then.” 

\+ 

Iker ordered grilled cheese, and Cristiano ordered cheese pizza. They shared a plate of fries and sipped their sodas, and Cristiano watched Iker very carefully, thinking about the previous week and how Iker looked like a ghost on their walk back from meeting Alvaro. 

Over the course of the week, he and Iker hadn’t spoken much. Iker was spending more and more time in his office, and Cristiano was spending more and more time with Alvaro. It had been seven days, and they were already falling apart at the seams, growing new roots in seemingly opposite directions. 

Cristiano’s roots were buried deep in his forbidden attraction. The night before had been the first night of his life, as far as he was concerned. He and Alvaro were staring at Alvaro’s photos again, and they kissed because Alvaro was rambling about this one photo he had taken in Venice when he was sixteen, and how that was still the best photo he had ever taken in his life, not because of how it looked-- it was shit, really-- but because of how it made him feel. And he didn’t stop talking for ages. He just moved his hands and his eyes lit up, and his lips moved quickly like they were dancing-- and that was when Cristiano kissed him. 

The curtains had been closed; the room was dark. Their lips met, slowly and cautiously. It was painfully good, like eating a whole box of chocolates before staring down at the mound of gold foil and realizing the mistake. Cristiano’s lips felt gold, heavy, mysterious, like he and Alvaro were part of something now, that they were under lock and key together. They were precious and vulnerable, and they were golden. 

So when Cristiano sat across the table from Iker, and he remembered the connection they once shared, he wasn’t thinking about starting over with Iker or confessing his chaotic mess of emotions. He wasn’t thinking about explaining the darkness that had such a powerful hold over him. He couldn’t explain how terrible he felt for damaging Alvaro with that one kiss. He couldn’t even look at Iker and wonder. He just looked and remembered, and when Iker stared back, he knew the other man was remembering too. 

“I’m leaving,” he said finally. “Running.” 

“From what?” 

He shrugged. “You know.” 

Cristiano was preoccupied. Iker wasn’t leaving. Iker never left. He had been living in the same place all his life, and he had loved the same person for as long as he had known them. He was rooted in tradition and experience. Iker didn’t change. 

“And where are you going?” 

A small frown wormed its way onto Iker’s features. “Paris,” he said steadily. “I got a job offer.” 

“So you’re running to something, not away?” 

Iker set his knife down. “There’s something you should know before I pack my bags and never pick up the phone to call. You already know it, so I don’t think there’s any point in saying it outright, but you should know that I’m not running from you because you hurt me. I am running from this place with its echoes and its memories, and from this feeling; not because it terrifies me, but because it consumes me.” 

He looked like he was going to say more, but he mumbled something about packing his bags. He reached for the bill, but he knocked his water glass over instead, and the waitress had to run over and soak the mess up with her towel. Iker’s cheeks were burning, and his hands were balled into fists like he was embarrassed and nervous and impossibly sad. 

“So this is it?” Cristiano asked, as the waitress struggled to collect all the slippery ice cubes. 

Iker didn’t answer. He folded the napkin on his lap, and looked at Cristiano like something was growing around his lungs and building in his ribcage and constructing a casket over his heart. 

+

That night, Iker booked his flight while he called the university to accept. 

When he wandered into the airport early the next morning, his eyes were full of sleep. His suitcase trailed behind him, rolling over the pavement with a clean, smooth sound like the opening of a sliding door over and over again until he reached his seat. 

He put his headphones in, shut his eyes, balled his hands into fists. 

“Excuse me, sir, is that seat taken?” 

Iker paused his music, looked up, and he felt something take over him once more as a tall, elegant man dressed impeccably in a black suit smiled and repeated the question. 

“No,” Iker said quickly. He moved his bag. “Definitely not.” 

“I’m David.” 

“Iker.” 

\+ 

They had driven down to Alvaro’s parents’ house by the lake, and the sun was just starting to set. They had dinner on the dock, and when it grew dark enough for boats to no longer pass, Alvaro patted the spot on the hammock beside him, and Cristiano joined him, pulling the younger man to his chest. 

There were fireflies, the steady, quiet lapping of the water against the dock, the sound of Alvaro’s heart pounding in his chest. Visually, it was stunning. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually-- it should have been heaven. But Cristiano wasn’t there yet because his character was still stained with his misery. Slowly, it was washing clean, but he would need time to purify it. For the time being, he wasn’t able to grab heaven with both hands and dive in headfirst, but he could taste it; he could taste paradise.

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, if you want me to explain the title of the work or the quote at the beginning, please comment and let me know, and i'll tell you what i had in mind, but i would also love to hear your interpretation 
> 
> this fic is a little messy, vague, and confusing. just how i like both my stories and my men. for explanations or clarifications, comment. 
> 
> This story is in no way trying to glorify death or violence or depression or anything like that. I am merely presenting emotions in the only way I can. The story overall is probably very dramatic and a little too dreamy for readers and if you have any sort of depth perception, you'll probably see beyond it. I hope you enjoy it anyway.


End file.
